we'll walk and quietly talk all through the country of your skin
by black-ostias
Summary: snapshots of love: finding it, wading into it, and never coming back out. MOBREI. complete one-shots ranging from gen to mature/explicit.


**drabbles done for mobrei/reimob week 2019. prompts are listed at the beginning of each one.**

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1\. nature + sleepover (explicit. mob's POV)

Reigen had called you out in the middle of summer vacation; something ageless in the deep green forest of a client's estate. You tracked its energy on autopilot, Shishou ambling behind you, making the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

You survived the heat that made you ready to bargain your soul for a popsicle stick. You survived the bugs. You survived lugging a well-supplied backpack around because Shishou had warned you that this job could last more than a day. You survived the strange, scratching resentment at Reigen for roping you into these situations, and at yourself for letting him rope you in the first place.

But this? You are not going to survive this.

Reigen shifts around in his sleeping bag again, his back sliding against yours. He's trying to pretend that he's snoring, but his breath is too even-paced, too controlled. Nor is he supposed to squirm around this much. You know what he's like when sound asleep, from your schoolboy days of seeing him nod off beside you on trains or buses, still as living stone.

This whole trip was Reigen's idea, and yet _he_ didn't bring a tent for himself.

You had assumed that he had his own buried in his pack. He had assumed that the tent you brought along with you was large enough to fit the both of you comfortably. All these assumptions have added up into this final, miserable situation: the two of you faced away from each other, unable to put a respectable distance in between without suffocating yourselves against the canvas of the tent, lying sleepless for what feels like hours now.

Your too-long limbs stuck in fetal position are killing you. It's so hot and stuffy from all of Reigen's shuffling. Everything you're breathing is recycled from his lungs. You're five seconds away from storming out and curling up under a tree, vexation and panic at war in you.

And then Reigen kicks a leg out, trying to stretch. His damp hair tickles the nape of your neck.

In those five seconds your body has decided to twist around and pin Reigen down by the shoulder instead.

"Shishou," you groan, though it comes out as more of a snarl. "Can you please stop moving."

Reigen has indeed stopped moving. He isn't even daring to breathe. Your sight adjusts by inches to the dark, and you get stuck on the fact that his eyes are huge in his pale, sweaty face. "Sorry," he croaks out after a beat too long. "Sorry. I keep. Misjudging. How big you are."

Reigen's voice is strained and staticky, nothing like the smooth confidence you're used to. He tries to roll free from your hand trapping his shoulder, but he can't budge at all. You're not even using your powers; you're just stronger than him. You feel like you're getting drunk.

"I'll. I'll sleep outside, Mob, don't worry, it's my fault for not bringing a—"

"We can fit." You're proud of how steady you sound.

He gives a frustrated huff. "No, we've already tried—"

"We can fit. As long as I stay on top of you." Reigen's higher functions come to a noticeable halt as his breath hitches. You pause, and add, "Or maybe you should get on top of me. I'm heavier."

"Mob." There seems to be a permanent blockage in Reigen's throat. "I know that you know how that would be a very bad idea."

You hum and let your forehead drop to Reigen's. His eyes squeeze shut, lashes brushing your cheek, and the accompanying shudder flows through you like a slow electrocution. "You're going to regret it." The pain in his resolute statement surprises you into clarity. You nose in and kiss his pinched mouth, relish how it rounds in shock. You pull back a bit so you can meet his gaze.

"I'm quite annoyed with you right now. But I've liked you too much for too long to regret anything."

"Oh." Rendering Reigen speechless is a rare victory. You get to lay back and pull him over you like a blanket without any complaint, tucking his head under your chin. "Is this okay?" you ask, settling into the perfect dark.

Reigen sits up abruptly, knocking some wind out of you, and you curse yourself, thinking that he's fixing to run away, too much too fast too reckless— But instead he grabs your shirt and kisses you, quick dart like he's trying to be careful. But you're not having it, because what if he never lets this happen again. You lick him open, a decadent, dirty slide of tongue that closes a fist in your stomach. A high moan escapes him, his hips jerking down, and you find that you're already meeting him halfway. Fitting your hands to his hips, two fingers skidding under his shirt to find skin, is the most natural thing you've ever done.

Now Reigen is the one who pauses and asks, "Is this okay?" in an unsteady tone already ruined from a few kisses and grinds. You reply by thrusting up hard enough that he bounces on your thighs, and the startled whimper you dislodge from him almost makes you come in your pants. "Arataka," you groan, testing his name like a sip of heady wine, and his resounding, enthusiastic, desperate "_Mob_" is encouragement enough.

You yank down your pants and then his, and you take the both of you in hand and start rubbing. Arataka all but wails when you swipe your thumb over the head of his cock, thrusting faster into your fist. The heat in you draws tighter, delicious ache that has you rasping, unbidden: "Next time— Next time, I wanna see your face— see you come—"

"Yeah," he agrees, almost hysterical. "Yeah, everything, anything, p-please— Please , Mob, I'm so close, _please_—"

It's over pretty quickly after that.

After catching your breath, you swipe a finger through the mess you both made on your stomach, and idly lick it. It's bitter and heavy on your tongue, but it's worth it to feel Arataka's spent cock try to twitch back to life against your thigh.

"Still no regrets?" he manages to jest, but it's tinged with uncertainty.

"You can keep asking that, Arataka-shishou," you say as you wipe yourself clean, "and I'll keep saying the same reply."

He snorts, "Stubborn smart-ass," but it's unbearably fond. You drift off to the thrum of cicadas outside, the rustle of evening through the trees, and Arataka's heart thudding against your own like they fit together.

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2\. spirit + 100% (mature. mob's POV)

**28%**

The mere idea of Reigen without a voice is strange. Wrong. Like waking up in a world where you're left-handed instead of right, like the sky turned a different color. But that's what happens.

Tome and Serizawa were the ones with him when they realized it. They were stuck panicking in the office watching Reigen pitch a silent fit, mouth fish-moving as his throat flushed from trying to scream, but no noise coming out. They called you once they'd all calmed down enough to try and think of a solution. You're glad for it. You don't know what you would have done either, seeing your shishou unhinged and desperate.

Serizawa pointed out the curse that's been laid on Reigen, not that he needed to; the malignant yellow energy is pretty obvious, wrapped around Reigen's throat like crawling briar. It's not the kind that can be exorcised or removed by anyone. The person, the being who put it there has to be the one to remove it. And it has to be a pretty strong psychic user, to have put safeguards even against your brute efforts of striking it away.

Serizawa and Hanazawa volunteer to retrace all their steps that week, all the previous job locations and clients, to try and find the culprit. Ekubo tags along with them for the prospect of dinner.

Reigen is sullen and stubborn. He refuses to close the office despite being robbed of the main tool in his livelihood. Tome goes through the sales talk, and you do the exorcising if there are any actual spiritual problems that need solving.

When you're done for the day, Tome goes home, no time to stay for dinner. She's studying more diligently now that she's in college. Later this year you'll be taking the entrance exams for it too. But the future doesn't seem like a priority right now, not when Reigen keeps trying to talk, whole packs of words disintegrating before you. You have the disconcerting feeling that you've gone deaf even though you can hear the quiet hum of the city at night, the thrown-water sound of pedestrian foot traffic around you.

For the first time, you let yourself think: what if this is permanent? What if Reigen gets in trouble, gets hurt, bleeding out somewhere with no way to ask for help?

**39%**

You're no longer comfortable with letting Shishou out of your sight.

Reigen heaves a long sigh, and takes out his phone. He taps something out then shoves it under your nose. The screen reads, _i really hate this shit. _He's even added the poop emoji for emphasis. You let yourself wear a faint grin. "I can tell. You love talking too much."

Taking grave offense, he starts rambling, like a black-and white silent film, his hands trying to do most of the speaking for him.

Reigen is the radio station in your head, the background music. Everything ties back to him. Even when they get quite annoying, his litanies are well-worn paths in your relationship, almost soothing. This eerie silence has nothing to do with him, and you hope it stops soon.

He bumps his shoulder into yours to capture your focus, and you meet his gaze in time to see him point at his open mouth. You stop as if suddenly bolted to the sidewalk. Reigen has a bright, demanding look on his face, and you press your tongue against the back of your teeth, doing your damndest to not imagine him on his knees.

**51%**

"What is it, Shishou?" you manage to ask.

Reigen snorts and points more forcefully at his mouth, then to the fastfood chain that's a few paces away.

"Ah, right, dinner!" you yelp like a game show answer. Reigen gets a self-conscious grin on his face, then proceeds to grip his stomach, hollow out his cheeks like he's a famine victim. "Okay, I'll order for us," you say, then sprint a little ways ahead so you have a reprieve from looking at him.

Him and his _mouth _.

You're eating your burgers and fries when Hanazawa calls you. "We did it!" he declares, tinny and proud through the speakerphone. "It was the ancestral spirit in the Kisaragi home."

You remember. Reigen had gone there to give them advice on how to appease said spirit. You'd seen the wizened old woman in Edo period-dress, drifting through the walls with a sour expression on her face. Hanazawa continues, more sheepish, "She didn't like that Reigen-sensei was showing off and. Well. Pretending to take credit for your work. So she made him not talk. To learn the value of silence, or something to that effect."

"Did she undo it? Shishou's still trying to talk here with me but nothing's happening."

"She says she'll do it tomorrow. We threatened to exorcise her but she knew we couldn't or her family would get mad. Sorry, Kageyama-kun. Maybe you could have convinced her better."

"It's okay, Hanazawa-kun. I don't want to leave Shishou alone anyways. Thank you."

Reigen's been furiously typing on his phone throughout the conversation, perhaps live-tweeting his responses to each detail, but he gives up and flaps his hands at you. You interpret it: "Shishou says thank you too. Well, not literally, yet, but he does mean it."

"I know," Hanazawa laughs. "Goodnight, you two."

You hang up and turn to Reigen. "This is great!"

Reigen claps a hand to your shoulder, an itchy smile working on his mouth. He's jittering from the adrenaline rush of relief, though there are still pinched lines of frustration on his face from not being able to celebrate properly, as in out loud.

He dives for his phone again and types, _we need to drink! you're of legal age now anyway, let's celebrate!_

His joy infects your logic, and you agree. You're glad that you don't end up at a bar, just buying some sweet imported drinks from a 7-eleven. Serizawa's meekly mentioned that the few times Reigen had invited him to go out drinking, Reigen got intoxicated rather fast.

You have underestimated exactly how fast that can be.

A few sneaked sips out on the street and he's already lolling sidewards when he walks, and you have to hold him up by the shoulders. He smells pleasantly of sweat and massage oils and a muted cologne, his body exuding heat even through the layers of his suit.

**73%**

You're only lightly buzzed, and you can still move alright, but it's your self-control that's slipping. You steer the both of you into a quiet side street, and use your powers to propel yourselves into the air until within a few minutes you land on the balcony of his apartment.

Reigen's giggling, hair windswept and a pink glow high on his cheeks from the travel as well as the alcohol. He stumbles upright, and reaches up to pat your cheek. He's mouthing something again, so you reply with, "You don't need to talk, shishou, it's okay."

His beatific face pinches, and he fumbles for his phone again. When he's done, some of the characters are wrong, but you get the gist of what's been written: _is it better when i don't talk?_

It takes you a while to process that he's referring to the words of the spirit who cursed him. "Well. Sometimes you do say hurtful, hasty things."

His face lines with remorse, his whole frame drooping like a marionette that's had its strings cut. You know you're both thinking of the time back in middle school when he'd driven the two of you apart. You continue, the alcohol liquid courage in your veins, "But you've said so many helpful, kind things too. Especially to me, when I need it most. And I've. Never told you this, but being called 'Mob' used to bother me until you did it. Because you'd see me. For me. And say it like I was special. Nobody says my name like you do."

You're looking right at Reigen as you say it, or rather, at his mouth, and right on cue he breathes out, _mob _.

**88%**

"Yeah," you say, your heart feeling too large for your chest. "Like that."

There's a pause, a clock's tick, and then suddenly he's crowding you against the railing of the balcony and kissing you. Reigen is _kissing _you, up on tiptoes because you got a growth spurt again this year, and arousal surges through you like a live wire. You respond with equal fervor, teeth and tongue and choked, airless moans from Reigen as you jimmy open his door, crab-walking together into the apartment because you can't bear to break away from each other for even one moment.

You trip onto the couch and Reigen arranges himself in your lap, crowding in like if he presses into you hard enough you can mold into one being. He's panting and shameless, rocking against you, thick sheen over his eyes. Like a bucket of ice water over you, you remember just how drunk he is, so drunk he doesn't talk because he _can't _.

**95%**

You try to push Reigen off but he's fighting to stay on you, his hands slick and hot on your neck, your shoulders. His mouth keeps saying your name, chanting or begging, you don't know, you can't hear him.

"Stop," you plead, and Reigen's eyes widen in shock and fear, immediate self-recrimination corroding them, and you fight to say, "You can't say yes, how can I if you can't."

Understanding dawns on Reigen, and he cups your head. It's only then that you realize your powers are leaking out, your hair snaking between his fingers, your aura bathing the room. His other hand finds your forearm, and at first you think he's stroking it when you realize he's writing something. English letters, traced over and over.

_yes_

_yes_

_yes_

And at the same time he mouths it, his face cracked open to let all his vulnerability through, he next writes, _mob._

**100% LOVE**

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3\. food + fashion (gen. reigen's POV)

In hindsight, this is all Tome's fault.

She'd flounced over and waved her phone in front of your nose despite the fact you were busy scheduling appointments. "Look at this!" she demanded as she scrolled through the post on her social media. "Reigen-san! Look how crazy and adorable!"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," you grumbled, mostly to shoo her away, trying to remember what you were supposed to jot down. But the damage had been done.

Looking up and admiring food jewelry has become your guilty pleasure. It's so delightful and creative; it makes some faint childlike spirit in you spin around with glee. There's soba worn as earrings. Fruit salad arranged into a necklace. Bracelets with sushi charms. A tiny stack of pancakes adorning a ring. A hair clip that looks like someone spilled napolitan on some poor model's head.

You've wasted hours on the Hatanaka website, and on shops that do personalized custom jewelry of any sort. You're especially fond of keychains, little ramen bowls and curry rice you could tote around anywhere. However, you don't let yourself buy anything, because if you started with even one, you'd no longer be able to stop.

It's perfectly alright! Everyone should have a hobby, even grown, middling-aged men like you. So when Mob catches you browsing it on your laptop at work, you absolutely do not scramble to shut the screen off and nearly spill hot tea all over it and yourself. Not at all.

Thank goodness it's only the two of you in the office today. Tome would have never let you live that down.

"And here I thought you were watching porn," Mob says as he helps you rearrange your desk.

"Why on earth would I do that? And more importantly, why would _you _think that?"

Mob huffs one of his faint laughs. He hasn't stopped grinning since you nearly fell off your chair. "Yes, I'm a high schooler who knows about watching porn, how unusual." His grin spreads further. "The stuff you're looking at is way more interesting and cute, though."

" _Right _?" you can't help gushing, repressing your embarrassment for the sake of hearing Mob chuckle. He doesn't often laugh, a somber kid by nature, and getting him to do so is a lovely achievement.

You let yourself babble, pointing out your favorite pieces on various websites and pictures. "I might just try and learn how to make them myself! Mold and bake the clay, cover it in resin, and so on. It could be a nice side venture."

"You and Tome-san always have side ventures," Mob chides, though he's still in a cheery mood. He retrieves the curly fries he had set aside on your desk earlier, and breaks one off into a greasy golden circle. To your bafflement, he takes your hand and slides said curly fry onto your ring finger. "Would you make one like this?" he asks, bright smile like he hasn't done anything strange to you, or in general. Mostly to you.

You stare down at it, feeling the heat creep onto your face, tickle your ears. "What are you playing at?" you try to ask, though it comes out as a faint croak.

Mob shrugs. "Not playing." His eyes are so unbearably fond. Tender. "Just practicing."

You're too flustered to reply, much less remember to take it off. Tome and Serizawa arrive from their lunch break and find the fry ring still coiled around your finger. You can't bring yourself to respond to Tome's sly questions about proposals and engagements. Neither does Mob, but his private smile, the joy meant only for you, never leaves his face.

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4\. admiration (teen. reigen's POV)

"Shishou."

You grumble and turn a bit. This is probably a dream.

"It's past closing time, shishou."

With a resentful whine, you stretch yourself into awakeness, digging the sleep from your eyes. You blink up at Mob looming above you, his head haloed by the office lights. "Am. Am I on the couch?"

Mob lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "You fell asleep at your desk. It didn't look comfortable."

"You used your powers?" At Mob's nod, you groan, try to elbow yourself up to a sitting position. "That's a bit creepy. Do you always move people around when they're asleep?"

A grin breaks on Mob's face. "You did." At your perplexed grimace, he laughs and explains: "When I first started working here, I'd fall asleep and then wake up to you carrying me down the street. Or already in bed at home."

The memories resurface, eleven-year-old Mob light as a feather on your back, but sleeping like a rock. It's making you oddly sentimental, nostalgic. "Yeah, well, you were a weird little kid, for sure. But still. Maybe. Don't do that, next time."

Mob shrugs again, but his smile only grows, gains a dimension of playfulness that you're still slow to recognize on him. "Should I do it the regular way, then?" With exactly zero warning he ducks to scoop you in a fireman carry, and you flail in his grip, clinging to his neck for dear life.

" _Mob! _"

To your immense relief, he sets you down on your feet right away. "Sorry," he says, in a tone that doesn't really mean it. "I just wanted to see if I could do it, like Captain Musashi. I guess I can." Karma must favor you, because Mob's self-satisfied smirk morphs into a wince as he rubs at his lower back. "I probably shouldn't do it so quick, though."

"Serves you right," you snort, but you do take pity on him, and circle around to press at the muscles along his spine. He hums and lets his eyes drift shut, leaning back into you. You get a quick chance to study him. Easing lines of pain around his mouth and the fine structure of his cheeks, and right now you can see effortlessly what Mob will look like when he's done growing up.

It still startles you, sometimes. Like you were just minding your business and then one day, there's this rangy teen who has relocated Mob's boyish looks to a man's face. You can still see his younger self so clearly, almost miss him when you blink and Mob is a small stringbean again.

Nevertheless, you're quite proud of how far he's come. He's been studying for university entrance exams with Hanazawa and his other friends, and he can come into his own away from you, figure life out by himself. He's more than capable and responsible for it now.

Forcibly tipping yourself back from the morose turn of thought you've taken, you note that Mob has gone rather still. You realize that you've been absently kneading his back for quite a while now, and you look up to find him studying you in turn, poised and pensive.

You yank your hands away and go back to your desk to keep busy, putting your laptop in its case, sorting papers and fliers back into designated drawers. Mob's eyes are a tangible weight on you, and you're about to tell him that the two of you won't have dinner together, you have some imaginary meet-up with an equally imaginary person, when he says, "I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, shishou."

"Me? Uncomfortable? Nah, never." You pause, then allow a small concession for the truth: "You're. Just so grown-up, now."

Mob goes crestfallen, and he asks, "Is that a bad thing?" He even hunches down for effect.

"Of course not! Quite the opposite. People will take you more seriously, you won't need my help." You chuckle, adding, "You've outgrown me."

You mean it both in the literal and metaphorical sense, and it's supposed to be a compliment. But Mob is, for some reason, shaking for head as he approaches you. "I still need your help for a lot of stuff, shishou." There is something shatteringly nervous in his expression, his throat bobbing a little "Still. Need you around."

"Do you now?" you ask, trying to tease him into lightening up, but then.

Mob places his hand on yours where it's splayed on your desk, his thumb stuttering across your knuckles, just for a second, a breath, yet still too long to be misinterpreted. "And you still need me," he mumbles, though it sounds more like a question than a statement, leaving you profoundly stunned.

Your vision becomes kaleidoscopic, in this moment. You can see the nervous eleven-year-old and the stoic middle schooler and this enamored youth and the man he'll become, all at once. You see Mob in his entirety, the parts comprising the whole, and there's a rush of emotion in your chest like a low fire roaring back to life when met with a jet of air.

He makes to pull away but you turn your hand over, let your fingers slot between his and grip tight. "Well, who else will carry me around when I'm asleep?" you say, bringing up your free hand to rest on his cheek.

Mob sags into your touch, seeking, nuzzling. He turns to kiss your hand, his lips brushing your wrist. You can't help the little gasp that escapes you, and he doesn't miss it.

When he grabs your necktie to kiss you, you're already braced to kiss him back. But there's a lot more force than you expected, and you trip backwards, hitting the wall. Mob doesn't care, following in suit for more graceless kisses, his body draped over yours.

"Sl-slow down there," you manage to half-laugh, half-moan into his mouth, "let me breathe." He concedes, breaking your kiss with an audible pop.

"Is this okay?" he asks, worried and still panting a bit. "I'm sorry, shishou. I just— I want you so much."

A dull ache opens in your stomach at his earnest longing, the bitten red of his lips. "And you're too beautiful for an old fart like me."

"Don't say that," Mob admonishes you, "or else I'll. I'll have to kiss you again."

"Oh no," you laugh, breathless with anticipation. "Whatever shall I do?"

Mob snorts, and makes good on his threat. This time you don't tell him to stop.

* * *

5\. cis swap (explicit. mob's POV)

She's so soft.

You kiss Reigen's thigh, light as a wish and it trembles, threatening to squash your head. It's a risk you're delighted to take.

"Mob, my darling," and even her voice is unsteady, making you rut against the edge of the bed for a second, "when I said we should take things slow, th-this isn't what I meant."

You look up the expanse of her body, drinking her in. Her hair is escaping its messy bun. She's in the ribbed gray shirt that you like to sleep in, its collar slipping down one shoulder and showing skin that's never seen the sun. You keep trying to steal it back whenever you have to return to university, but it's mostly for show. You love seeing her in your clothes, and she knows it.

"What did you mean, then, shishou?" you ask, innocent as you please, even batting your lashes once for effect.

"What I _mean_ is I've known you since you were a kid, and I'm a spinster twice your age—" She whines as you squeeze the insides of her thighs, dangerously close to her panties, but she struggles to continue. "And we've only been dating for a few months, _and_ you've only started staying over since last week. Aren't. Aren't things too fast for you?"

You pause, all your arousal giving way to nerves as you ask: "Are they too fast for _you_?"

She doesn't reply right away, and you shrivel, rolling around to the other side of your bed. Her bed. Just hers. Not yet ready for two. The setting sun outside the window feels like a bad omen.

"Mob, get back here," she laughs, just as frayed herself. She's the one who chases after you anyways, stroking your shorn thick hair. "You're not pressuring me, far from it, I just. I want to do right by you—"

"You are," you mumble into the pillow. "I want to do the same." You're glad that she can't see you blush as you add, "I just want to do you, period."

Reigen giggles, flicking the back of your neck, chiding you, "You naughty girl," but it's less teasing and more dark, heavy, _greedy_. "By all means, please do."

Without waiting another moment, you pounce, kissing her, consuming her, wanting to be consumed, not coming up for air until you're both seared and scarred for life. You wedge your hand between your bodies to yank her shirt up, licking sweat from under the curves of her breasts, then grasping both to deliver nibbling bites to her nipples. She whimpers, trying to attack the buttons on your jeans. "Off," she begs you, and you jump off the bed to comply, shedding everything as she watches you. You crawl back on her and return between your legs and. And. You're not ready for the sight of her.

She's soaked; even her curled pubic hair is glistening from her slick. Not only her clit, but her whole slit seems swollen, an overripe peach you've waited for too long to take a bite out of. Even the scent of her is thick on your tongue now. She starts shifting and squirming, and you glance at her face to see that she's covered it with her hands, embarrassed beyond belief. She starts mumbling into them: "I'm. Like this. Every time you sleep in my bed. Every time you shower." The words come out faster, like she's at confession and there's a time limit. "Every time you kiss me and hug me and hold my hand and smile at me. I just want you all the time, I keep making a mess of myself, I have to wait until you leave to t-touch myself—"

This simply mustn't do. You take pity on Reigen and grasp her by the ass so you can glide your tongue from her hole to her outer lips to the hood of her clit. She _shrieks_, then you hear her scrabbling for a pillow so she can muffle herself with it.

"I've barely even started," you say into the meat of her thigh, and she snaps, without any conviction, into the pillow, "I've just been pent up for a while!"

You seal your mouth around her clit and hum in reply, and the heel of her foot skids on your back. You start pushing a finger into her and she lifts her pillow enough to whimper, "Sl-slow, please."

"Ah, sorry, why? Does it hurt, when you're touched inside?"

"N-no, it's just." She's blushing all the way down to her chest now. "I'm really close, I might lose my mind if you—"

"I thought losing your mind is the point."

"Y-you insatiabe bra_aht_—!" You put two fingers in right away, and they slide in like it's nothing, her pussy sucking on them as you try to thrust them in and out. She cums within minutes, wailing your name, her thighs locking around your head. You want to let her recover, but you're aching for release too, and you shove the fingers that had been in her inside yourself, moaning at how filthy it is. You try to bounce on your hand, rubbing frantically at your clit, so close so close—

Reigen's hand on your face stops you. You force your eyes open to find her sitting up and looking at you like you're a feast she's ravenous for. She guides you atop her, and lets you take your pleasure, grinding your pussy against hers until you're crying and trembling, and you collapse on her.

It's quiet for a long while. She presses mindless kisses to the top of your head, and you're kneading her love handles, feeling like a contented kitten. Then you shift and your pussy slides along hers, and it's like a spark to gunpowder, igniting the both of you.

"H-hey," you say, unsure but eager, "um, if you're okay with me using my powers…"

She lifts one brow at you. "To do what?"

You answer by demonstrating. Your powers flare out, illuminating her in soft blues and violets. She smiles at the sight of you, and you do the same, giving in to the urge to kiss her. While she's distracted, you direct a small dose of psychic energy to slip as deep inside her as it can go.

"O-ooh fuck, that's so weird," she groans, but she's squirming up into it after the initial surprise, a welcome sign. "It's like a little bullet vibrator—"

You don't let Reigen finish. You concentrate, and the energy expands bit by bit, stretching her out.

"_Fuck_," she yelps, digging her nails into your back, and you chuckle, place open-mouthed bites along the sweet curve of her neck.

"I've always liked doing that to myself," you say when you're done making a tiny mark on her. "You like it too?"

As an answer, she squeezes your ass so she can thrust back onto your energy better. "Oh wow," she laughs, raising her wild, wanting, and, most importantly, happy gaze to yours. "N-next time though, we're using a strapon, okay?"

"I haven't even made you cum yet and you're already planning for next time?" you snort, but you can't stop grinning either.

"I'll be making a whole schedule!" she declares, giggling, faint crow's feet at the corners of her eyes. You kiss her because you can, and then increase the energy inside her until she's fit to burst, and fuck her through her cursing, moaning laughter; so silly and gorgeous and all yours.

* * *

6\. fairytale + vacation (gen. reigen's POV)

You've been processing everything for a few minutes now, yet you still can't believe your eyes.

Flowing water by your feet and thick forest behind you and before you, colored so brightly and heavily, like a child got overzealous with painting a project. To your right is the river you'd traveled via motorboat to get here, so clear you can see the bottom and the fish scuttling along it. To your left, the lagoon, an unrealistic blue, the blue of chlorine and bright plastic, of a giant dark sapphire. The birds trill in time with the ebb and flow of this place. Not even the delighted shouts and splashes of younger tourists from the designated swimming area nearby is enough to dampen your wonder.

Mob comes back with both your tumblers refilled with drinking water, then sits beside you on your viewing deck. "Well?" he asks, after a few moments to catch his breath. "Is it everything you'd hoped and dreamed it would be?"

You'd seen the promotional post while looking for an affordable but beautiful place for you and Mob to go on a well-earned holiday. The Enchanted River of the southern Philippines, it proclaimed. Its resort is an island sitting at the estuary of said river. And, at the source of this river, its mysterious crowning jewel: the Blue Lagoon. A submerged cave so extensive that no one has succeeded in mapping its true depths despite multiple tries.

Now that you're here, in person, all the aches of the connecting flights, the jeepney rides, the boat rides, they all slough off you. You even _feel _younger here, mystified and excited at the prospect of the unknown, of magic.

"Look at that cave! It doesn't even look like it's fathoms deep, the water's so clear it's deceptive." You're babbling now, but you're not self-conscious about it. Mob has long since gotten used to it, still taking to heart every word you say. "Who knows what's down there? There could be mermaids. Or sirens. Any manner of water deities."

"More fish?" Mob says wryly, but with a faint grin on his face.

You huff and turn back to stare into the lagoon. "Where's your sense of adventure?"

"I've had more than my fair share of adventures in life with the exorcisms we do." But Mob does join you in staring as well, and he hums, "I could probably use my powers to investigate. Could even take you with me. Put air bubbles around our heads with telekinesis, or something."

"Oh my goodness, when can we do that?" you say, definitely trying not to squeal. "Now?"

"I was just thinking out loud, Arataka. Don't want to upset whatever's down there, if there really is something."

You reconsider, and say, with some regret, "Yeah. The people here believe the river is sacred. Protected by magic creatures." You brighten up as you recall, "Oh, they're gonna be feeding the fish soon! They have regular lunchtimes every day."

"That'll be nice. Then we'll have our own feeding next?"

"Obviously," you chuckle. "Take pity on my frail old man body."

Mob hums and slouches further down so his head can pillow in your lap. "You're forty-five, not old," he laughs, gentle and sweet. "But we can go back to the resort after this, if you want."

You're amenable to that. You'll be here for a few more days anyway, before you have to get back home. Serizawa and Tome can only manage the office alone for so long.

Despite the fact that everything has gone so well, the noonday sun bathing you all in heavy, sleepy-eyed gold, you are still compelled to ask:

"Is. Has this been a good anniversary, love?"

Mob starts, and takes the time to push up on one elbow to look closer at you, while still tilted backwards, face upside-down. "Of course. This place is wonderful, but anywhere I'm with my husband is always going to be wonderful."

Your heart melts and slops around your bones. You take his hand in yours, your matching plain silver rings notching together somehow a more miraculous happy-ever-after than the blue waters and skies of this corner of the world.

* * *

7\. graduation + future (teen. reigen's POV)

The celebratory bar crawl is winding down at last.

Ritsu and Suzuki and their peers caved in half an hour ago. Tome took it upon herself to herd the Telepathy Club kids (men, now, really), Serizawa at her heels. Hanazawa and Shimazaki have just blipped off to who knows where (nope, you won't even try to think about that). The enigmatic Takenaka, who you thought would disappear first, turns out to be the one who's slow to leave. Alcohol must numb his telepathy and let him be more amicable. He wobbles off his stool and pats your shoulder. "Good thing you didn't drink, Reigen," he says, with only a hint of slurring. "Gonna need it."

"Okay?" you reply, and he chortles, wanders off.

Which leaves you and Mob. Always and again, just you and Mob. Some strange, cynical voice in you that's only ever awake at two a.m. tells you that this scenario is getting old, and so are you. You quash it immediately. This friendship may indeed be a decade old, and no small amount of unusual, but it's still important to you. You suspect it'll always be.

You get up and nudge Mob. He looks up from the empty glass he's been staring into for the past few minutes, and smiles at you, his plain, contented smile. "Let's go too, Reigen-san."

The streets are empty and quiet, save for the summer stars and the occasional passersby, also drunk and hushed by the hour. Mob's swaying a bit beside you, red-faced but otherwise quite lucid. "How the hell are you still on your feet?" you chuckle. "You drank your friend Inukawa under the table. Literally."

"It might be an esper thing. Hanazawa once said that we heal unusually fast because of our metabolism boosted by psychic energy. So the effects of alcohol aren't as severe, or don't last as long."

"He's a smart one. No idea why he keeps hanging around Shimazaki, of all people."

Mob shrugs. "He's in love. It is what it is."

Love. That's not a word you thought would be used to describe that strange relationship, but considering how headstrong Hanazawa has softened, and how the man who could literally be anywhere else still chooses to come to him every day; well. You're about to comment on how they seem to be good for each other when Mob adds, "He also says Shimazaki is fun in bed."

"Ack! I didn't need to know that."

"If I had to know, you do too," he chuckles.

There's amicable silence for a while, shops and street lights guiding your way until you hit the riverside. The moon is in full view here, turning the waters into shards of reflective glass. Mob, for some reason, decides to drop onto the grassy ground. You want to tell him that he'll get his fancy dress suit dirty, but he has his face turned up to the sky, devastatingly young in the pale metallic glow of night. And so you come to sit beside him.

He sighs, unprompted, "S' weird. I've finally graduated college but I still feel like there are some assignments I need to get to. Other days I even feel like I should be back in high school. Guess it hasn't begun to sink in yet."

"You're. Quite chatty when you're buzzed," you observe aloud, gently amused.

Mob leans back on his elbows, hums in agreement. "You should take advantage of that. Ask me my secrets."

"You don't have secrets," you scoff, though you balk at his wry stare. "Y-you have secrets?"

There's a mona lisa smile on his face that would worry you on anyone, but on him in particular, it worries you even more. "Just a few."

"Okay, okay, never mind all that," you laugh, trying to retake the reins of this conversation. "What I want to know is, what now? What are your plans?"

"Well. I asked my parents if I could rest for a few months before beginning the job hunt craze, and they're okay with it. Any job's okay. I'll work at it, save up for a house."

You nod along. "Get married, have kids, the whole package."

"I'll have to ask you first."

"Huh?"

"If you want us to have kids."

" _Huh? _"

"Not a lot of places here allow even foster parenting, so—"

"Mob." You have to cut off his easy rambling, like he's talking about the weather and not something that's upended your entire world. You try to restate it, reframe it, to make sure you're not mistaken. "It sounds like you're proposing to me."

"No!" Mob yelps. You get precisely half a second of indecipherable, riotous emotions before he smashes it all away again with, "Not yet. I'm. Proposing the proposal. The actual proposal will take a while. And it'll be way nicer, of course." He startles, smacks a hand to his forehead. "Oh shit, I forgot the middle step."

"There are steps?" you ask weakly. You're a cartoon character at this point, crashed into and run over so many times that you're paper-thin, unable to move and breathe.

"Yeah, I'm supposed to ask you out on a date, and after several I become your boyfriend. I'll be making sure to buy a big enough house so you can move in. No offense to your apartment but we just won't fit."

" _Mob _."

He finally catches on to the minor meltdown you've been having for the past few minutes, and pauses."…Yeah?"

There's an odd sound, and you realize it's coming from you, a jagged laugh of realization. "You're really creative when you're drunk."

Mob's summer-night eyes narrow at you, and he says, quiet enough to almost get lost in the sounds of the river: "I'm not saying all this because I'm drunk."

This shuts you up completely. He sighs and rolls onto his side to better look at you, and you do your best to look anywhere but at him. He continues, "I've been holding on to this hope since high school. It kept me going when my courses got really difficult."

You have nothing to shield yourself from that. No parachute to aid you in this free fall that your insides are taking. "For. For that long?"

"Yeah," Mob replies, simple and heavy as a prayer. Something stirs in your chest, but you quash it, as you've always done.

"And you're just saying this _now _, when you're drunk?" You're vaguely aware of how your voice is approaching a pitch that only animals can hear, and try to tone it back down.

Mob has the decency to look sheepish, at least. "I was gonna do it tomorrow, or whenever I got the right opportunity. I got too excited. Sorry."

You pinch the bridge of your nose, trying to calm the sensation in your chest that feels like flapping wings. "You also failed to take into account how I would feel. How I feel right now?"

Mob sits up, all the way alert now. "And what do you feel?"

Your tongue is arrested in your mouth, and you're overcome. Collage of thought-sense-memory, a decade's worth of emotion, not all of them strictly platonic and familial. Reconciling the little boy who turned up on your doorstep with the man who's before you now. Reevaluating every fleeting thought.

"I'm. I just," you say at last, struggling to push your words into the open air. "I don't even know if I'll return your feelings the way you want me to, much less want to. Do all that." You bray another wretched laugh. "I might not catch up, and you'll have to accept that. There are so many better things out there—"

"Don't," Mob says, cutting you off, his eyes burning meteorites crashing into yours. "Don't end this before it's even begun. Don't try to logic your way out of this one. If you don't want any of this, you'll have to tell me how you feel."

How do you feel? He's transcendent, resplendent, in the moonlight. He has depthless compassion, amazing bravery, unconditional kindness. He's a young god who could have caused an apocalypse had it not been for your words, your vulnerable heart laid bare. What is it that you _don't _feel about him?

At last you say, "You'll have to give me more time. A little more time. So I can be sure. So I don't mess this up. I'm. I can't promise I won't mess your plan up."

Mob nods, and, after a brief hesitation, brings his hand to cover yours where it's gripping blades of grass. "I can't promise anything either. But I'm still gonna wait, and do my best. The plan can always be changed. As long as you're in it. With me."

No longer capable of finding the right words, you tilt your head onto his shoulder, and he rests his head on yours in turn. The wings in your chest multiply until you feel like you're about to lift off the ground.

Judging by the paradoxical mix of exhilaration coupled with comfort and home that his mere touch brings, you realize that Mob doesn't have to wait long for your heart to catch up to his. And you realize you're more than okay with that.


End file.
